


Harmonica

by Waywocket



Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26398510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywocket/pseuds/Waywocket
Summary: According to some live shows, the bots don't seem to remember the wars. But seeing as how memories over lap, sometimes The Spine remembers a memory that he can't quite remember.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	Harmonica

**Author's Note:**

> So this tried very hard to be a poem, but I haven't written one of those in forever! So it's a little bit mixed up, but I think it works!

You know that feeling of remembering, but without the memory? Just the feeling of remembering something. Even when it feels happy, something about it hurts, because it isn’t all there. Just a colour or a smell, or a tune played on a harmonica that’s just out of tune.

Walking down the halls of the manor, The Spine has a memory of something he had forgotten. No, something that had been taken from him. To try and protect the bots the Walters had removed most the memories of the wars they’d seen. 

They knew they were there, their ranks and accomplishments, but not much more than that. Everything else had been wiped clear to save them the pain of remembering, mostly. Mostly.

Every now and again, something bubbled to the surface. Something small. Something they would have hardly noticed, except for the ache. It always hurt to remember something that wasn’t there anymore. Not a break or corrupted file. An empty feeling, like holding something that wasn’t there.

For The Spine, it came in waves. Some stronger than others. And oftentimes a tune would come later. Nothing amazing, or even particularly catchy, but a tune nonetheless that would rattle around his wiring and stir up that empty ache in his core.

First he tried to hum it, but something wasn’t right. He thought he knew the notes, but something about it wasn’t working. Then he tried his guitar, and somehow that was worse. One by one, he tried every instrument in the manor, even ones he didn’t know, the ache only growing stronger. 

So for a while, he ignored the ache, ignored it when it came. Ignored the little tune he didn’t know it’s name. And after a while, it felt like it was driving him insane.

It was there somewhere, the reason for the song. He knew it meant something, something close to his metaphorical heart. The more it stayed, the longer it festered, until he felt like his wires were melting.

It only came in short bursts, and rarely at all. But every time it came, it lingered there. That feeling, that ache that there should have been something more. The ache was a bother, but it was also a comfort, in a twisted little way.

There was a memory there, and he craved to remember it, even if he was afraid. He knew why they took his memories and their rules he obeyed. But that didn’t stop his curiosity, or his journey to find it.

Looking through old boxes, dusty and forgotten in the lowest parts of the manor, he found his old uniform in a box with his name. Looking around the feeling returned, stronger than it had ever been. Memories he couldn’t recall called him in.

He found papers and trinkets, names he knew he should remember. But the thing that called him most was dented and rusted on one end. The dim light shone of the aged metal of a small harmonica that had clearly seen better days. The feeling eased and yet grew stronger while he looked it over, this way and that.

Like the times before, the tune rattled in his head. Holding the old instrument to his lips he tried to play. He fumbled, and sighed, when he couldn’t get it right. But unlike the times before, it still felt right.

Leaning against the wall he held it up again. Slower now, he tried to feel out how to move his hands. A few tries more, and he got it right. Though one of the notes was sour. Even with that broken note, it felt like a memory.

He smiled softly and played again. The ache was there, but it was more. A sadness, a fondness. Mourning and laughter all rolled into one.

He found himself down there playing for hours, that same little tune. He could almost see someone sitting there, laughing as he played. Oil spilled from his eyes, but he paid it little mind. It hurt more than the other times, but was just as much a comfort so he played on.

Whenever that feeling came, Spine wound his way down the halls and stairs to that far and forgotten room. He’d curl up in a corner and play. Some days it only hurt. But some days, it felt like a moment of peace in a raging war. It felt of laughter and tears. 

And on those days, he played for a little longer.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a feeling I get fairly often. But for me it's a light lavender-y colour and sometimes the smell if it's really strong. It's not too sad for me though. Do any of you get feelings like that?


End file.
